A little reminiscence from my time up in the frozen tundra of Yellowknife. I thought it was bad in Vancouver when I had to teach the bartenders at Ceili’s what went into a Hendricks Martini. This… this is so far beyond that, there are no words. Well, there are about 500 of them. Here you go, don’t say I never did nuthin’ for ya.
So yesterday I decided I’d been good (god knows why I decided that, but I can be somewhat arbitrary at times) and deserved a treat, and so I took myself to the local filling station, an agreeably-but-not-intimidatingly casual place named after a species of plant which did not, in fact, exist on the premises.
Unless it was hiding, and after what happened, who could blame it?
The waitress was attentive, and sweet, and barely old enough to be out that late on a school night. She asked me what I would like to drink, and I thought about what not-too-exotic-but-still-tasty items might be available in the subarctic regions and said, “Do you have Johnny Walker Black?”
She looked at me with alarm.
“Rum?” she asked.
“…Scotch,” I replied, probably just as startled as she had been. She’d apparently never heard of this exotic tipple. I might as well have asked…
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